


Moon's Too Bright, Can't Sleep

by Hancockles



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 18:07:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7449088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hancockles/pseuds/Hancockles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred and The Hunter settle down for a well-deserved sleep, but Alfred needs... assistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moon's Too Bright, Can't Sleep

He’s on the cusp of sleep when someone whispers harshly in his ear.

“I must admit something.”

Alfred. They’re laying back to back on some charred straw, or what must have been straw once, before all the fire and the beastliness and the– well, he wasn’t going to scare himself awake with that. It was time to sleep. Or supposed to be, anyway. He and Alfred met up again some hours ago, decided to stick together for survival, and after a few grueling killing sprees they both decided, arbitrarily, that it was time for a good nap. The night seemed to be eternal. It was a good a time as any to get some shut-eye.

“What, Alfred?”

Alfred inhales. The hunter can feel the crazed, pent-up energy inside him. That’s just how Alfred is. All the time. And when Alfred releases his breath and his comment with it, no one’s surprised at the subject matter.

“I need to- to whack off before I can get to sleep.”

“What?”

“Whack my– you see, I must jack– I have to masturbate.”

“Before you can sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Every night?”

“Yes.”

The Hunter doesn’t have to turn his head to know the expression Alfred’s making. Something cloying, or sheepish. The image of it in his mind’s eye maybe does a better job as pissing him off than the actual face would have. The Hunter flips to his other side, props himself up on his elbow.

“How do you even get to that point? What the fuck, Alfred?”

Alfred’s on his back now and has his hands clasped, fingers steepled over his abdomen. He’s looking up at the stars, looking very calm about it, as though this was a normal conversation to have.

“You know, I did read a book about it. Very fascinating, actually, all the endorphins that are released during orgasm. They induce a kind of-”

Knowledgeable though he was, he never seemed to get the hint about rhetorical questions.

“I don’t need the details. Just do your thing. I’ll ignore it.”

So the Hunter flips back around, rests his head, calls it a night. But a little tap-tap on his shoulder tells him that the night is just beginning.

“Gods, what is it?”

“I was hoping- I wanted-”

“Alfred.”

“I would relish your assistance.”

The Hunter lets that sink in. Then it hits him– a joke! It was all a joke. A very disarming and confusing joke, told by Alfred, who is most certainly not a joker most of the time. Which explains this whole thing not seeming like a joke. But the Hunter can feel Alfred’s eyes boring a hole into the back of his head. It is a joke, right? The Hunter shifts, lays on his back, looks at Alfred.

“You want me to touch you.”

“Mm.”

“So you can sleep.”

“It helps!”

“And you absolutely cannot, for whatever reason, do it yourself?”

Without warning, Alfred’s voice drops a few octaves, becomes husky.

“I’m sure we could both use a little human contact, good hunter. Settles the spirit, all that.” The way he says it sets the Hunter’s hair on end.

Alfred props himself up and leans over the Hunter, weaving his fingers through his dark, coarse hair. His pinkie brushes against the shell of the Hunter’s ear, and he shivers. There’s that look again– he can barely make it out in the moonlight, but the Hunter sees Alfred bite his lower lip, briefly, then sees him do something with his eyes. Something that he can’t name, but something that has an effect on him nonetheless. The Hunter groans.

“Alright! Alright. It’s not going to be good though.”

Alfred lets out a breath, something that sounds annoyingly like “ha!” and whumps back onto the hay. He looks awfully pleased with himself. Almost too pleased, the Hunter thinks irritably. He’s gloating!

So the Hunter steels himself, poises his hand over Alfred’s crotch like a crane, and goes all-in. His hand closes around Alfred’s dick, moves up, down, so on and so forth, all the basics of a handjob. And when Alfred leans his head back into the hay and sighs softly, the Hunter finds it isn’t so bad. Aside from the sweating. Why is he sweating so much? And Alfred’s got a thin sheen on his forehead, too, but it’s not unattractive. He’s got a devastating look about him, with the curled hair and the soft green eyes and the palm of his hand against his forehead, posed like some magnificent fallen angel-

The Hunter stops that thought in its tracks. Not going there tonight. There may be a handjob but there will be zero romanticising, the Hunter decides swiftly. That’s an entirely different rabbit hole. Nothing like touching a companion’s dick, his velvety, hard dick, in the slanting moonlight.

But he wants to see Alfred whole. He pulls the man’s shirt up with a free hand. The sight of powerful muscles layered with soft fat gives the Hunter a quick, dirty thrill. He hadn’t realized he’d been working with 100% beefcake here.

Before the Hunter can stop himself he leans down and kisses Alfred experimentally. They both seem equally shocked by this gesture, but continue it with few complaints. Alfred’s lips are soft and so, so warm against the Hunter’s. He perceives himself as cold, always withdrawn, until this very moment, when Alfred’s kiss draws his heart out of a deep slumber. His dick, at least, is at attention. Alfred, always a kind one, takes notice and runs his finger along the Hunter’s length.

The Hunter moves Alfred’s hand away. His own hand is still working him into a frenzy with measured strokes.

“Just you tonight. You’re distracted,” says the Hunter, more tenderly than he means to, and Alfred moans. It seems he is as touched by the gesture as he is touched literally by the Hunter. Does it happen a lot? People falling in love with you solely because of how dramatic and perfect you are? The Hunter thinks this, but he keeps it to himself.

The Hunter splays his hand over Alfred’s midsection, savors the soft skin there, then moves up to pinch one of his nipples. Alfred claps a hand over his mouth and moans into it, but even muffled the sound is a loud one.

“You can be loud,” the Hunter says, refusing to let up with the unfortunate nipple, though honestly finding it difficult to coordinate his hands to two different actions. A handjob, that’s fine – he can keep a steady rhythm and change it up as needed. Add the nipple thing – his hands seem to forget what they’re supposed to be doing. He falters. And when he speaks he messes up the rhythm even more. Though Alfred still seems to be enjoying it, the Hunter is surprised at how hot his face feels with embarrassment. He’s committed now and he doesn’t want to be known as the one Yharnamite who gives a bad handie.

So when Alfred removes his mouth and moans again, loudly, the Hunter doubles his efforts. He leans over Alfred’s cock and licks the head of it languidly, testing the waters. The response from Alfred is favorable (the Hunter thinks he hears “oh, Master,” but he won’t think on that now. He won’t think on it at all, actually – too many questions) so the Hunter takes the man’s cock into his mouth, feeling his way through what was probably his second administered blowjob.

And he thinks he’s doing pretty well. Slow and careful strokes of the tongue turn into fevered laps, much to the Hunter’s surprise; he’s dedicated. He wants Alfred to have his pleasure. As the pace picks up Alfred claps a hand to the Hunter’s head to urge him along. They make eye contact, and the Hunter almost chokes at the intensity in Alfred’s eyes.

When he feels Alfred buck his hips he senses danger, removes his mouth, and watches a glob of cum shoot off into the night. The rest of it comes out like toothpaste from a tube; the Hunter can’t seem to stop watching the cock twitching and releasing so much fluid. It’s impressive. And terrifying. How long had it been since this guy had a good orgasm?

Alfred, totally spent, lets himself melt like a puddle in the hay. He brushes some sweat-covered hair from his forehead and gazes at the Hunter with an expression that makes him feel… fuzzy? There’s no word the Hunter can think of for the feeling he’s caught in, but he doesn’t dislike it.

“I knew you’d fancy me,” Alfred says, wiping himself off, not without some difficulty.

“That is becoming less true by the minute, actually.” The Hunter’s quick to play off any feelings of fondness and lays back down on his side. He has a persona to maintain. He licks his lips and runs his tongue around his mouth, tasting dick. That’ll be a bitch to get out in the morning. Or, rather, whenever he wakes up.

Alfred wraps his solid arms around the Hunter and heaves a deep, satisfied sigh. The man’s annoyingly charming. It’s undeniable and infuriating fact. The Hunter hears a soft yawn, and so asks a burning question before it’s too late. “How many times have you extracted a handjob from an unsuspecting companion?”

“You’re the first. Most people here are beasts.” Another yawn. “As I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Not a fan of beastly? I’ll be sure to keep my nails trimmed.”

The Hunter expects at least a pity chuckle, but when he turns his head he sees Alfred, true to his word, is fast asleep.

He wasn’t joking about the handjob thing.


End file.
